


we're all looking for a little gentleness.

by dogbites (orphan_account)



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-06 12:05:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8750140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/dogbites
Summary: "What did I say, son?""May I please borrow the papers after?" Credence doesn't answer Graves' question, instead goes straight for the correction of his perceived bad behavior.(Graves hates the word. Correction. As if boys are broken things that need fixing.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Is it kosher to add a slash tag if it's not entirely slash? How does this work. Taking a breather from writing to do more writing, why not.
> 
> Kinkmeme fill for this prompt: http://fantasticbeasts-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/459.html?thread=331723#cmt331723

_The details on how they meet change with every retelling._  
  
_That part doesn't matter._  
  
  
  
"How was your day yesterday?" Graves peppers his eggs without looking, his eyes boring holes at Credence's bowed head. The diner is sparsely populated at this hour in the morning, when the work hour rush has passed and only arthritic gentlemen and hassled homemakers are left mingling about. The boy is both palms upturned, wrists balanced against the scrubtop table's edge — saying grace.  
  
The Auror can be patient for this.  
  
"Credence," the man gently calls, his tone firm but not unhappy. "How was your day?"  
  
The boy looks up this time, shoulders still hunched but back now held straighter. "It was fine."  
  
Graves waits as the boy plays catch-up.  
  
"...Pa," Credence amends, saying the word as meekly as he could possibly manage. "I had an uneventful day."  
  
They cut into their eggs and toast in peaceable silence, and it takes four or five bites into their late breakfast before Credence opens up about Modesty's little mishap with the donations jar.  
  
  
  
  
_They have rules. Small ones, but no less important for their arrangement._  
  
_They don't bring up Mary Lou. This is the most crucial rule of all._  
  
  
  
  
"—And I was wondering that maybe, if I finished my work today, I could come and hold your cat?"  
  
"Whiskers won't mind it, sure," Graves adds as he flips through a No-Maj broadsheet. The pictures remain static; he has yet to get used to it. There's news about the growing troubles with bootleggers, about hidden tunnels being used for smuggling of spirits. There's news about a depleted economy, some more about a growing influx of immigrants from Europe.  
  
All dire news, if Graves cared about it. Credence is reading over his shoulder, his chin almost resting on him, and Graves pointedly folds the paper closed.  
  
The boy has the awareness to look apologetic.  
  
"What did I say, son?"  
  
"May I please borrow the papers after?" Credence doesn't answer Graves' question, instead goes straight for the correction of his perceived bad behavior.  
  
(Graves hates the word. _Correction_. As if boys are broken things that need fixing.)  
  
  
  
  
_Tina Goldstein's gaze on him is heavy with accusation, as are her folded arms and her hunched shoulders. "What are you doing, sir?"_  
  
_"You asked me to help." He shrugs his coat off, waving his wand over it to dry the rain out of it. The coat gives a great shiver. "This is what you wanted."_  
  
_"I didn't want... this. Whatever you're doing."_  
  
_Graves hums in reply. Doesn't remind Tina that the boy is well into adulthood, himself._  
  
  
  
  
They're in Central Park. Graves is not glamoured, which means he's in plain view of the No-Maj crowd surrounding them. He doesn't have his coat on, instead has it folded up on his lap as he finishes a short novel he's been putting off for months. It's a No-Maj book — The Mysterious Affair at Styles, by a Ms. Christie.  
  
He's enjoying it, truth be told. There's an easy simplicity to No-Maj fiction that he likes.  
  
Credence's breathing whistles up to him, and the boy turns onto his side, pressing his face into Graves's coat. A gentle breeze rolls through their little section of the park, as a mother of two crosses the paved walkway a few feet from where they're seated under a tree.  
  
"Good afternoon, sir!" The woman waves at him, her body language open towards Graves. There's a pale band on her left ring finger. _Widowed_ , Graves surmises, and he waves back to her.  
  
"It's a good day to be out, isn't it," she asks, her daughter's small hand clutched to her skirt while her son fidgets nearby. Both children are dressed well, and there aren't any wrinkles to the woman's face that might indicate some form of hardship. _A husband lost abroad, probably on an expedition. Mercantile. She inherited well._  
  
Credence stirs in his sleep.  
  
"It is, ma'am," Graves answers conversationally. "I'm spending it to catch up on some reading."  
  
"I'm taking my children for a walk, myself," she replies, punctuating with a nervous chuckle. "Off to visit my mother-in-law, she's wanting to see her grandkids."  
  
_She's suspecting you of looking for a new husband_ , Graves thinks unkindly. "I'm visiting my son, too. His mother doesn't let me see him too often."  
  
It's not subtle, but Graves claps Credence on his shoulder. The boy frowns at the touch, but doesn't wake.  
  
The conversation stalls, peters out to a polite disengangement, and Graves finishes the rest of the book.  
  
  
  
  
_"Were you talking to someone while I was asleep?"_  
  
_"No. Did you sleep well?"_  
  
_"I did. Thank you."_  
  
  
  
  
He packs as little as he can of the trivial as Credence sits at the foot of his bed, his discomfort projected clearly. Were Graves the type to imagine in terms of poetry, the boy had been dragging a shroud of anxiety with him everywhere.  
  
In hindsight, Graves thinks with much frustration, telling Credence about Germany wasn't a terribly good idea.  
  
"I'll be back in a couple of months," he says, and the words lie between them like such a blatant dishonesty that Graves almost recants them. "It's something I have to do."  
  
"Can't you take me with you?" Credence's eyes are blown wide, fingers tangled up with each other in painful arrangements. The boy's knuckles are so white that the bones are outlined so clearly. "Can't Miss Tina just teach me so I can—"  
  
"It doesn't work like that, Credence."  
  
Graves' suitcase snaps shut with finality. So does their conversation about Germany.  
  
  
  
  
_"We don't bring up your mother. I 'm not fond of being a murderer, so we leave her out of this." He taps his fingers on the scrubtop once. "Say yes if you understand."_  
  
_"Yes, sir."_  
  
_"You don't call me sir. You don't call me Mr. Graves. I want to help you, but I'd like for us to separate our arrangement from our daily lives."_  
  
_"Yes, s—" the boy stumbles, brows pulling together delicately. "But what do I call you?"_  
  
_"Whatever you like. I'm here to look after you, as I've said."_  
  
_The boy, Credence, bites his lower lip. His back is rigid, the line of his shoulders tense. Graves waits for him to find his answer, though his growing impatience is testing him at the moment. No-Majs have a fondness for large glass windows; the Auror feels a shade too exposed for his liking._  
  
_"Would you mind if I called you Pa?"_  
  
_It surprises Graves. The answer seems to surprise the boy, as well, as he tucks his head against his own shoulder and mutters his way through an apology._  
  
_"Enough with the apologizing," he snaps, ungentle, the boy flinching. Graves softens at the sight of it, shames himself in his mind. "You don't have to say sorry for everything."_  
  
_He reaches across the table, holds his hand out for Credence to take. The boy hesitates for a long moment, before taking his offered hand — even with his callused fingers Graves feels minute scars on the boy's palm._  
  
_"I don't mind it," he assures the boy. Graves tightens his hold around the boy's fingers, thumb running across the back of his knuckles. "Whatever you like, Credence. Son."_  
  
  
  
  
After his captivity - where he has all the time he needs to think back, wondering why he'd not realized sooner when he first learned that the Obliviation hadn't worked on the boy - Graves wonders if he made the right choice to leave Credence behind. The mediwizards fuss over him for days, until it becomes clear to them that he's not interested in convalescing in their presence. Picquery sends him home on a Sunday. As he ambles his way to his apartment, distant church bells peal into the early morning silence.  
  
He'd always wanted to be a father.  
  
He realizes this too late, and mourns.


End file.
